


The Watering Hole

by Otterly



Series: deer/tiger idiots [6]
Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 16:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otterly/pseuds/Otterly
Summary: Alex, the best bartender in Savannah Central's sketchiest bar, becomes a vital part of a murder investigation.





	The Watering Hole

**Author's Note:**

> Tangentially related to my stupid deer and stupider tiger stories
> 
> But they're not necessary

When I walk into work, the first things I smell are cigarette smoke, spilled tequila, and the unmistakable musk of fifty mammals crammed into a single pub. They’re welcome scents, despite them meaning that I’m at work for the fourteenth evening in a row.

None of my coworkers acknowledge me. To be fair, it’s because they don’t see me. I see them bouncing from table to table to bar to table again, no time to glance to newcomers walking in. Orders and requests compute behind their frantic gazes and forced smiles. 

A few patrons nod to me as I pass by—old Georgie and two wolves from his most recent crop of promising young high school dropouts. I give them a wink back, swaying my hips and letting my tail drift carelessly until I’m at the backroom, and out of their sight. 

The backroom isn’t much to look at. It’s a single desk, a coffee machine, a sign in sheet and a break area—a couch, two chairs and a small coffee table. 

Cathy, my donkey manager, is just getting ready to leave.

“Hey,” she greets me. 

“What’s up? Busy day?” I ask. 

“Dead,” she answers. “For a Saturday.”

We giggle, and I notice that she’s wearing a particularly pretty dress. It’s a fetching blue that compliments her grey color well, and it sounds corny, but it feels like I’m really _seeing_ her for the first time.

“Your dress is beautiful,” I say.

She blushes. “Thank you!”

“Going out somewhere?”

“Something like that,” she says. “Alex, can I ask you a question?”

I nod.

“Well…” She clicks her tongue. “You’re very talkative. For a tiger.”

“Uh huh,” I say, smiling. 

“Does talking ever scare you?”

“Does it scare you?” I ask back. She nods, and I walk over to place a paw on her shoulder. “Talking’s just...talking. Nothing to be scared of. And in the end, words are wind, you know? It’s actions that really count.”

“But—” she stops herself. “Thank you. Have a good shift.”

She leaves swiftly. After I put my jacket on a hanger I follow in her hoofsteps. I don’t enjoy wasting time in there when there’s work to be done.

When I get to the bar, Maia, the cougar that usually bartends before me, is in the middle of a what sounds like a heavy conversation with one of our regulars of the same species: Ryan. Their bodies curve forward and into each other like tree branches.

“Can’t do it then—”

“Did you hear about—”

“Oh, I know, but the thing is that—”

I clear my throat as I approach and grab a glass. They stop talking immediately. If they’re smart they’ll find somewhere that someone can’t hear them, but they won’t. That would mean leaving Watering Hole. 

A patron I’ve never seen before, a coyote in a black hoodie and ripped up jeans, sits at the bar and smiles at me. I smile back—full teeth.

“Two fingers of your best bourbon on the rocks,” he says. He sounds like a chainsaw underneath a mountain of pillows.

“Sure thing, cutie,” I purr. “What’s your name?”

“Um, Bill,” he stammers. “Nice to meet you.”

“What brings you here?"

I nod and turn around to start mixing, which won’t take long. He’s on the pred side, so he’s not rich. Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Probably won’t tip. Probably can’t. He’s getting Mouser’s Mark.

“Just wanted somewhere to hang out.”

“So I’ll be seeing you again?”

“Maybe.”

My tail swishes. Suddenly I’m feeling generous today. I’ll give him the good stuff. I grab a bottle of Bunner’s.

I relax myself and work fast. Nice, thick ice cube in the middle of a highball glass. Turn around again. Glass on the bar. Fast pour as I make eye-contact with him, which he holds with a cute, awe-filled glimmer in his eyes. 

I slide the drink over to him. He just barely stops it from going off the table and laughs nervously. 

“You seem like a nice guy,” I flirt. 

“I-I dunno…” He laughs softly. “I guess.”

“You maybe wanna—”

There’s a whistle from the other side of the pub. One of my coworkers, They need my help, and this side’s only gonna get populated in three hours or so. 

I wink at the new coyote before walking across the room. My world goes from wolves, foxes and hyenas to old goats, stuffy looking sheep sipping at half-filled glasses of wine, and my favorite customer in the whole world.

I sidle up to the prey bar and walk to the end of it, where a capybara in a denim jacket and a dusty safety vest sits patiently, reading a book.

“Hey Jeremy,” I say, lightly scoring my claws over the bar. 

“Alex,” he says, not taking his eyes off the book.

“What are you reading?” 

He holds his book a little higher and tilts it so I can read the cover.

I lean forward. “Warriors: Into the Wild. I think my mom’s told me about that one. Any good?”

“It’s interesting.” He closes the book and looks at me. “Tigers and lions and wildcats in a world of only forest, making tribes and fighting over land and love.”

“Tigers making tribes,” I repeat, smiling. 

“To be fair, there are only a few of them.”

“Sounds a little better. Do you want the usual?”

Jeremy nods gratefully. I start fixing up a Manehattan.

“What’s new with you?” I ask.

“Same old,” he says wistfully. “Go to the docks. Work. Come home. Have dinner with my wife. Come here. Drink. Talk with you, which is the best part of my day, by the way.”

That gets me. How can I possibly keep a smile off my face after that? 

“And you?” he asks.

“Same thing, minus the docks and wife.”

I slide his drink over. He takes it and sniffs at it, savoring the moment. Then he takes a long, greedy sip.

We talk for another three hours. Intermittently, of course. There are other customers to serve. 

The twins, a pair of Zebras that work with the polar bears, drink several beers and top things off with a shot of vodka. They’re going to Sahara Square tomorrow. Probably dealing with the uppity camels who’ve been showing attitude there. Three lads from the sheep community tell me that a few young guys have been acting out at church. Romeo, the deer who runs Watering Hole’s only pawn shop, tells me that he bought seventy silver rings last night. 

Jeremy just talks to me about characters from the book he’s reading. Who he likes and who he doesn’t. And then at the end of his evening he smiles at me, slides me fifty bucks, and leaves. I’ll see him next time I work.

Fifteen minutes afterwards, my shift ends. 

* * *

Stuck on the pred side today. Pretty lame. I could have used some niceness today, but now I have to ham it up for all the guys wanting a big, strong tiger lady to serve them cocktails that might as well be fruit juice. 

Unsurprisingly, that new coyote from yesterday is not at the bar but is hanging out with a hateful badger and four wolves all decked out in tacky leather jackets. Alan Badgertail and his crew. I pull the tap on some kegs and fill up a few pints of thick, dark beer while watching them intently. I see the coyote talking with Alan in the way that all of Alan’s friends do: acting casual but stiffer than an oak tree on the inside. Alan says something, the coyote laughs, and under the table I see a thick stack of green get handed off.

I set the beers down in front of the wolf couple who ordered it, and they scale them before I can turn around. As soon as their glasses touch the bar I grab them to get their refills. Only a few more hours until my shift’s over and I can…I don’t know, watch a movie by myself or something.

Then something interesting happens. A tiger walks into the pub.

Male, in a white shirt and navy blue tie, with shiny leather shoes. A little taller than me, which means he’s short, because my subspecies is the smallest of tigers and he’s _ definitely _ a Sibearian. There’s training to his walk. The kind of discipline you only get after being at some sort of camp. An academy, if you will.

My customers stiffen up as soon as they set eyes on this strange tiger, but no conversations halt. No one stares for more than a few seconds. Acting guarded as soon as a ZPD officer shows up will only end up in unnecessary trouble, after all.

Maia’s working with me again, so I motion for her to take my side of the table as well as hers, because it looks like the cop’s coming straight for me.

He sits at the bar right across from me and he looks at me. His eyes are the kind of striking gold that I’ve always wished I had. 

“Hello,” he says.

“What can I do for you?” I ask.

“Don’t you mean ‘what can I get’?” he asks back. He sounds calm and measured. Like he’s on a smoke break after working for six hours straight. 

“Are you on or off duty?”

That gives him pause. “Off.”

I nod. “What can I get for you?”

“Vodka. Chilled.”

“We’re fresh out.” I smile. “What brings the ZPD to The Watering Hole?”

“I live here,” he says.

Bullshit. “Interesting. When did you move in?”

“Last week.” He loosens his tie a little. “I’ll get a penicillin, then,”

I start working immediately. “I’ve never seen you around. Did Officers Wolfston and Hoofhill get reassigned or something?”

He shakes his head. “They’re still considered the go-to’s when it comes to mammals who know the area.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

The officer looks at me like I just did a backflip or something, like I’m trying to impress him and he’s pleased with my performance. “I’ve heard talk about this place, and let me tell you, it’s living up to all my expectations. I mean, a clear side of the pub for predators and another side for prey? Folks like Alan Badgertail hanging out in the open?”

“No one’s side’s for anyone. The separation you’re talking about just happens naturally, I’m sure you understand. And you’re going to scare off those folks soon enough,” I mention, finishing his drink off and placing it in front of him. “What do you want, officer?”

“Cameron Hunt,” he says, putting a paw forward, palm up. His claws unsheathe slowly. 

Traditional. I’m a little impressed. 

I unsheathe my own claws and put my pads on his. We drag our paws back, curling our digits forward slightly, letting our claws graze the other’s palms nice and slow, until they brush against each other, claw on claw. When we’re no longer touching we put our paws down.

“Alexandra Sondaica,” I introduce myself. “Call me Alex. Why are you here, Cameron?”

From both sides of my peripheral vision I see multiple patrons—pred and prey alike—give me steely looks. They want this guy out of here as fast as possible, and it’s up to me to find out what he wants. If he wants something that they don’t want him to have, it’s also up to me to spit in his face.

Cameron exhales through his nose slowly. “Do you work here often?”

“Depends on what you mean by often.”

“Five to seven days a week.”

“Yeah, I work often.” I put my elbows on the bar and tilt my head. “You’re going to answer my question sooner or later, you know.”

“Do you know your patrons well?” he asks.

“I’ve been working here since I was nineteen.”

“And you’re how old?”

“Twenty-five.”

Cameron sighs. “Do you think I don’t feel the stares that I’m being given right now?”

“I didn’t, no.”

“I’m not an idiot,” he says. “I’m not here for any particular mammal.”

I wait for him to take a drink before I start talking again. “You _a__re _ here for someone?”

“Someone’s been hurt.” Cameron adjusts his seat. For a second, all of the false conversations around us falter, but they pick up again as fast as they stopped. He smiles. “I’m looking for anyone with information about that.”

“Do you think someone here did it?” I ask.

“Considering that the victim lived in this neighbourhood? Possibly.”

“Victim? It was a murder, then. Who was it?” 

“Nice try,” he snarks. “I can’t give any details.”

“You can give vague details, can’t you?” I glare.

Cameron takes another drink, this time stopping to swish it around his mouth before swallowing. “Capybara. Middle-aged. Worked at the docks.”

I can’t breathe.

“You knew him?” he asks.

I close my eyes. Force myself to calm down. My fur’s starting to stand on end. “Follow me.”

My strides barely feel real as I pull him into the backroom and close the door. I do a quick check to make sure no one’s back here as well before I sit down on the couch. My body slumps. I end up staring at myself in the dark reflection of the table as Cameron sits on one of the single chairs.

“Jeremy,” I say.

Cameron sighs. “Jeremy Carpincho, yes.”

“_Was_ it a murder?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“My first thought was that it could be connected to the organized crime in the area.”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not. None of the dock workers are on the menu. Everyone likes them, and Jeremy wasn’t in any debts.”

“...Are you—”

“I’m sure. That guy told me everything. You’re gonna run into a dead end looking for criminals for this crime.”

“Then one of his coworkers, maybe?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “No one I’ve ever talked to had any opinion of Jeremy that wasn’t good...what happened?”

“I can’t—”

“Cameron,” I look up at him. “Please.”

I see him wrestle with the decision through his eyes. Eventually he sighs again—he seems to do that a lot—and he crosses his arms. “Promise me you’ll be discreet.”

“No such thing as discreet around here.”

“Please,” he says. “That’s my only condition.”

I clench my teeth for a long moment. “Fine.”

“He was found by his wife,” Cameron begins. “You don’t have to know everything.”

“I do, actually.”

“Fine. He was found by his wife on the floor of their apartment. His throat had been cut. And his remains were desecrated.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He stops for a second. I think he’s impressed with me for not being grossed out or horrified, but I have to know. “Someone opened up most of his abdominopelvic cavity and partially ate several of his organs. His liver, kidneys and his heart, to name a few.”

“Ate them,” I repeat. 

Eating prey has always been a small part of every predator’s mind—it’s something you have to reconcile from the moment you find out that they used to be a part of your diet—but the actual thought of doing it is...it’s really fucking gross, to say the least.

Cameron nods. “Does that sound like anyone here?”

I laugh. “No one here’s eating anything more than bugs.”

“Shit,” he mutters. 

“Where else have you been?” I ask. 

“This was my last resort,” he says. “I don’t have anything to go on because no one’ll talk to me.”

I lean back into the couch. “That’s because you’re a total narc, dude.”

“Only practiced criminals know a cop on first sight.”

_"Teenagers_ know a cop on first sight,” I retort. “You’re terrible at blending in and you’re probably freaking everyone in the neighbourhood out as much as you’re freaking out my customers. Whether they stay on the clean side of the law or not.”

He starts to say something, but I interrupt him, glancing to the ceiling. “You need help.”

“Are you—"

“I get off in an hour. We’ll talk then.”

He leaves in a hurry, and I get thankful stares from the entire pub in exchange. Oh, and about three-hundred dollars in tips.

* * *

Cameron Hunt picks me up after work. We don’t say a word to each other as he drives to my apartment. Not a single conversation starts until we climb up the creaky stairs to the third floor of my building and enter my home, which isn’t in the best of shape. 

Cameron sits at the dinner table while I fix us some highballs. All I have is rye and ginger ale, but I have a feeling he’s not very picky. 

“So,” I say, sitting beside him and taking a sip of my drink, “what are you? A detective?” 

“Newly promoted,” he confirms. “Been on the force for five years.” 

“So you’re like a rising star or something, is that it?” 

He just laughs, so I get to my next question. “When did Jeremy die?” 

“Last night.” 

“This kind of police response seems fast.” 

“He’s prey. Are you sure it wasn’t gang related?”

I shake my head. “Jeremy’s—Jeremy was a good guy. He just wanted to make money, read his books, get away from his wife for a few hours a day. He’s a hell of a lot better than most of the mammals who live here.”

“What do you mean by that?” 

“You know.” I drum my fingertips on the table. “We’re all down on our luck here. Unhappy. Not in a good place. But Jeremy was one of the few who actually grew up here and stayed, and he liked his quiet little life. Mammals respected that. No one messes with each other’s happiness here. Unless their happiness is fucking with other people’s happiness. But Jeremy—” I stop. I take a drink. “It wasn’t gang related. Or crime related. I’ll bet my life on that.”

Cameron grunts. “You seem like you know a lot about what goes on here.”

“Drunk people like to talk,” I say. “Some mammals like to know what other mammals are saying.”

“That doesn’t get you into danger at all?”

“Have you ever, in your entire life, felt threatened by any mammal that wasn’t a polar bear?”

“Fair enough.”

“Also, mammals just _like_ me,” I take another sip. “You haven’t touched your drink.”

He takes a drink, sighs happily, and takes another. “You’re awfully social for a tiger.”

I have no response for that. “Where else in the area are you looking to talk with other mammals?”

“Questioning his wife could be helpful,” Cameron says, finishing his drink off. “She refuses to talk to me. She says she’s already said everything she’s had to say. I’ve read her report and it seems thorough enough, but I’d like to make sure. I also tried going to the place where he worked—I got were a few sentences out of everyone relevant and they all had valid alibis. The guy didn’t seem to be involved with any workplace drama and he wasn’t snagging any promotions from anyone else, so that was a bust.” 

I snort. “Why aren’t Wolfston and Hoofhill with you?”

Cameron looks like he’s on the verge of telling me something, but he shakes his head. “They’re preoccupied.”

“So you need someone the wife might relate to. Help her open up. Someone local.”

“Are you offering to help?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I grab my drink and lean back, emptying the rest of it into my mouth.

* * *

In the morning Cameron picks me up and we drive down to the harbor. It doesn’t take very long—Watering Hole was originally all industry, and that eventually got a bunch of homes tacked on, so nearly every conceivable road eventually leads you to the docks. 

Cameron remarks on things that I don’t usually notice about where I live. The trees here are long and unkempt in comparison to the rest of Savannah Central, and there are almost no houses. It’s all apartments, pubs and restaurants. The second you see an honest-to-god house, you’re somewhere near Banyon Street and way beyond Watering Hole. He thinks that we’re very modern in that way, but I disagree. I don’t think we’re far along enough. It’s 2003, after all. I need a movie theatre and a shopping mall that isn’t a forty minute drive away.

Jeremy’s apartment building is a small one. It’s only three stories and it probably can’t house more than sixty mammals, even if its living spaces were completely filled. It’s on it’s way to dilapidated—old, red and white bricks and dirty windows that you can’t see into from the street, even without any curtains behind them. The inside is kind of like a three star hotel in that it’s clean, but it’s as clean _as it can be,_ with its off-white walls that could have been immaculate, once, but now have odd streaks or splotches of dirt that pop up occasionally. We make our way to an apartment at the end of the west wing on the second floor—number W14. 

Cameron knocks three times and waits. Tiny footsteps get closer to the other side of the door, and we’re greeted by a capybara in a blue nightgown. She doesn’t look like she’s slept more than three hours last night. 

“Karen,” Cameron says. 

“I told you I didn’t know anything else,” she says dismissively.

“This is my friend Alex,” he responds, stepping aside. "She says she knew your husband."

“The bartender?” Karen says. 

I smile in response. “Hello.”

“Jeremy loved you,” she says again, and steps back to invite us in.

We accept her offer of hot coffee and wait for it at her dinner table. Cameron has a habit of fussing with his ears that I didn’t notice yesterday. It makes me feel better, and if we weren’t in the presence of a fresh widow, I’m sure I’d even be laughing a little bit. 

Once the coffee is poured, Karen takes a seat. My mirth flickers out quickly. I sit up straight as Cameron starts his questions.

“I know we’ve been here before, but I was hoping that maybe Alex could think of anything that we couldn’t.”

“Did he say anything?” Karen asks me, ignoring him. “I mean—any trouble, or did he have any debt that I didn’t know about?”

“He just read a book and talked to me about it,” I explain. God, I didn’t realize it at first but this place _ smells _ so much like him. I can hardly look her in the eye. “He was a good guy. No one wanted to hurt him.”

Cameron tries to jump in. “Let’s not—"

“I’m sure he told you I work late. That’s why we have dinner so early?”

I nod. 

Karen sniffed. “I found out halfway to work that the office didn’t need me. You know what it’s like getting here from Elm Street during rush hour.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And you found him when you got home?”

“He was—” Karen stops to cover her mouth and cry softly into it. My fur bristles. I can pick up the scent of blood. It’s still here. She didn’t clean enough, but how could she? I almost reach out to offer a paw to hold before she speaks again. “He was _ruined._ He wasn’t my husband anymore. I–I called the cops straight away.”

Karen starts to cry. I look away, guiltily, and share eye-contact with Cameron. His ears are twitching this way and that. He doesn’t touch them. We don’t move a muscle until Karen’s cries melt back into words.

“I don’t know who did this,” she says.

Cameron clears his throat. “We’ll do our best to find out.”

“Is there anything else that was going on in Jeremy’s life?” I ask. “Activities, hobbies…”

Karen takes a second to think. “Someone he knew—and I don’t know how he knew them, because if it was someone from work he would have told me their—someone he knew invited him to a book club, but he ended up not joining.”

That gauges Cameron’s interest. He moves to sit right beside her, his movements and posture electric. “Did he give out his address? Do you have theirs?”

* * *

Our car inches forward every few minutes, only to stop as suddenly as it started. In front and behind us, tens of other cars are in the same spot. I don’t normally mind traffic, but neither of us has said a word since leaving Jeremy’s place and it’s driving me crazy. 

“Do you really think that someone at this fucking book club killed him?” I ask.

“We have to exhaust all options,” Cameron says.

“You have nothing left to go on.”

He makes no move to deny it. “Maybe there’s a predator member.”

“And if there isn’t?”

Eventually the traffic clears up, and we start moving at a consistent enough pace that I can just close my eyes and hope that Jeremy’s killer is handed to us on a silver platter, I’ve never had the most love for my job—I’d rather be in a restaurant tending bar, or even managing it—but a part of me longs for The Watering Hole, and it’s long hours and loud belligerence that slowly becomes like TV static as time crawls closer to the end of my shift. I wish I was there, and not here. I wish Jeremy was still alive.

I like being on the outskirts of things. Watching. Being in the middle of the action gets you hurt.

“Where do you live?” I ask Cameron.

“I have a studio in the Rainforest District,” he tells me. “Why the sudden interest?”

“You’re very direct.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I don’t get out much, but I like it that way. Mammals always tell you ‘being a cop is ninety-percent paperwork and ten-percent fun’, but that’s part of why I like the job.”

“Very typical.” I snort.

“And what about you?” I open my eyes to see Cameron glance at me briefly before he returns his attention to the road. “Most felines like leaving the limelight to the lions, but you’re the first thing anyone sees when they walk into your bar.”

“Me and the ten other bartenders and wait staff on shift at any given time.”

“Everyone looks at you. Trust me.” Cameron slows the car. “We’re here.”

He parks swiftly. I get out first, feeling the warm pavement underneath my paws. 

The entirety of Watering Hole is a lot like my bar. Preds congregate in one part—by the water, mostly, and prey gather in the middle three streets before the neighbourhood turns into Banyon Street. It doesn’t make much sense when you think about it. Why would prey want to be surrounded by predators? But that’s just how it is. They take the middle, and we take the outskirts.

Glossy, brand new apartment complexes sit side by side with glossy, brand new cocktail bars and new money imitation holes in the wall that serve herbivore food at high prices. Contrast that with the building by the water—where everything’s so clearly built fifty to a hundred years ago, and everything’s flaky like a shedding lizard, or covered in holes like the corpse of one.

There are prey walking along the sidewalks holding shopping bags or groceries. They chat idly to each other with a kind of forced politeness that I can’t help but hate. By all looks though, it’s a nice day over here on the other side of Watering Hole.

Clearly, I don’t get out here much. Main reason is the looks.

Almost like they’re bees, or something, they all stop to look at me in unison. Windows open to peer. They don’t stare or anything. They never keep their eyes on me for long. But it’s unnerving. Even when they continue going about their routines, I feel like I’m still being gawked at like a circus performer. 

Cameron gets out of the car and gives me a look. The acrid, cleaning detergent stink of scared prey hangs heavy in the air like weed smoke. Like someone had been huffing bong rips here not five minutes ago. 

“Lead the way,” I tell him. 

We start walking to the building at the end of the block, not acknowledging the many mammals giving us nervous side-eyes. The sun is beginning to reach its zenith as noon comes closer, and its light wraps around the corners of the stainless steel railings lining the balconies that sit side by side on the upper levels of the building we’re walking to. 

As we get closer, the feeling that we’re being watched slowly fades into the background. Replacing it is a kind of muffled anxiety that dances around in the back of my mind. It feels like I’m walking to a job interview or something.

The door to the apartment building opens, and a big, tall moose in a crisp white suit steps out and walks toward us. Cameron stops walking at once. I get a little bit in front of him before I stop, too. 

The moose walks with a kind of sneaky confidence that reminds me of a used car salesman, but a particularly good one, one that isn’t _just_ trying to cheat you out of your money on a shitty car but wants you to keep in touch afterwards so he can sell you your next one. The moose stops a polite distance away from us, a polite smile on his face. “Hello there. I’m the landlord of this building. Can I help you?”

I hear Cameron’s ID case flap around when he pulls out his badge. “Detective Cameron Hunt. ZPD. We have a few questions for a few of your residents.”

The moose looks at me. “Jeff Graze. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Alex.” I put a paw forward. After a moment’s hesitation, he shakes it. “Sondaica. I’m not an officer or anything.”

“Sister, then? Cousin?”

“I’m just helping Mr. Hunt get around the area.”

“I see…” Jeff says. “You live around here?”

“I do.”

He nods, and glances to Cameron. “What happened? Noise complaint?”

“Murder,” Cameron says. Jeff’s eyes go wide, and in the midst of his frantic insistence that nothing of that sort happened here, Cameron put a paw up, shushing him. “It didn’t happen here. There was a dock worker. Prey. He might have been acquainted with a few of your tenants—there was a book club he was keen on joining. We’re exhausting all of our options.”

Jeff’s eyes narrow. “Well, rest easy. The only book club around here is the one that Terry Goodhoof runs, and he and the other two members, Marcus Mouse and Tony, are on vacation as of late. No murderers living here.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—” Cameron stops himself. “Yes, of course...no other members? Did all three live alone?”

“Their wives and children are on vacation, too, detective.”

“Of course,” Cameron repeats himself. “And none of these tenants are predators?”

“No.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Jeff’s smile gets bigger. “Any time. I’ll be sure to let my tenants know to lock their doors and keep safe at night.”

Back in the car, Cameron lets out a sigh. 

“What now?” I ask.

“I have to think about it. Maybe comb through the predator side of Watering Hole again. But I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.”

One of my many talents is that I always know what someone sounds like when they really need a drink, so I put a paw on his shoulder briefly and ask, “Wanna get back to my place?” 

He examines me for a second before he nods, and we take off in the direction of my apartment.

* * *

There’s a trail of fire on the inside of my chest, left behind my hastily swallowed 100 proof whisky. I lie back in my soft, fuzzy couch and sigh tiredly. On the floor, Cameron sits cross legged. He has a mug of white wine in his paws. 

“You know,” he says, “my mom always talked about how tigers were better off alone. She’d probably look at Karen and say ‘Man, I’m glad I never stuck around your father. I’d have ended up a blubbering mess like that when he shot himself’.”

I grunt noncommittally. “I think from a young age we’re all raised to act like—I don’t know, spiders, or something. Live alone, fuck once or twice or six times, and then get out before we end up eating each other alive.”

“It’s instinct,” he says.

“No it’s not.”

“You disagree?” 

“It’s taught. It’s expected.” I keep my eyes on my ceiling, and the crusty paint it’s covered with. “I’ve always thought solitary animals were just stupid.”

He snorts. “Evidently.”

“Are you rich?” I ask.

“Why?”

“The way you greeted me when we first met. You’re either a new immigrant or you’re rich, but I can’t detect any accent in your voice.”

“I like tradition,” he says.

I laugh. “That’s what I thought to myself when you gave me the pawshake.”

He takes a second and slurps his wine noisily. I don’t mind. 

“So you don’t want to be alone?”

I roll over to look him in his eyes. “I think that I can’t be alone forever.”

Cameron’s mouth flops open and closed. He’s trying so hard to speak, but he can’t seem to say anything. He chooses to finish his wine off, swallowing greedily until there’s not a drop left in the mug, and he crawls over and kneels in front of me. 

He smells like dry-cleaning and a dash of bitters. 

He looms over me, his face slowly coming closer. Our lips meet, but our eyes stay open. They close halfway as we press into each other, breath mingling. Cameron’s tongue reaches out for mine and I oblige. A moan slips out of me as he dives down, deepening our kiss. I feel his heavy breathing out of his nose brush against my own and dissipate among my cheeks and my muzzle. He draws away long enough to climb on top of me, and he kisses me again.

I feel his paw stroke my thigh before he unzips and unbuttons my jeans. I close my eyes and focus on our tongues and lips mashing hard against each other as he slips his paw into my panties, his pads rubbing against my pussy. My back arches as he slips a digit inside of me. I fight hard to keep it straight. 

“Fuck,” I say into his mouth. It comes out sounding like another groan. He curls and uncurls his digit as he moves it deeper into me, then slowly pulls out again. Small whines make their way out of me.

He stops for a second, allowing me to to completely tug my bottom garments off, which lets him take off his own. 

I barely get a second to admire his cock in its entirety before he shoves it in my face. There’s a thick string of pre drooling out of him. I tuck my chin under and press the top of my nose to his tip, slowly smearing it across my nose and straight down my face until the tip of his cock is resting on my bottom lip. I take the shaft into my right paw and give his tip a strong, forceful lick. Cameron shudders above me.

Feeling stupid and lightheaded, I maneuver my head around his cock and press my nose into the extra fur just above it, on his crotch, and I sniff hard. He chuffs and puts one of his paws on the back of my head, shoving my nose into the muskiest part of his fur. It feels like a thousand currents of electricity are crackling on top of my brain. I pull away and look up at him, and he’s smiling down at me.

What the fuck am I doing?

“I changed my mind,” I say.

He looks like I’ve asked him a particularly hard math question. “What?”

“Get off of me.”

He backs off enough for me to pull my legs out from underneath him. 

“Why?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“We can just take it slow,” he suggests, reaching out for me again.

I shove him moderately hard. His back crashes against the opposite arm of the couch.

Cameron looks at me for a cold, silver second, and then he puts his clothes on and leaves my apartment.

Minutes fly past before I stand up. I need a towel.

* * *

There’s supposed to be a big shindig happening tonight, according to Alan. The three powers controlling the docks at Watering Hole are invited to Tundratown by the relevant families residing there. He wants me to come, but I have work tomorrow, so I decline. 

He looks at me with an expression blended with knowing and annoyance, but he leaves me alone. 

An hour later I hear from a pretty little lemur about two zebras being found in the sands of Sahara Square. Sad to hear.

Bill visits me after that, though he goes by Billy now. There’s something different about the way he carries himself compared to when I first met him, but I can’t tell what it is. 

“Bourbon?” he asks. 

I fix him up a double on the rocks and pass it to him. “How have you been, newbie?”

“Fine,” he says, blushing as he looks down into his drink. “I guess I should have been up front with you that first day.”

“Nah,” I shake my head. “That would be no fun. I assume you’re going with Alan to Tundratown later?”

“Yeah…”

He’s frowning. I lean over and swish my tail to catch his attention. 

“Why the long face?” I ask. “You wanted work, didn’t you?”

“It’s not what I expected.”

Oh. This happens, but not often. I sigh slowly. “You’re new enough to leave scot-free.”

“But Alan likes me.”

“Then he won’t kill you for knowing where his businesses are.”

Billy presses his lips together, as if he’s trying not to say something.

“Tragic news in Savannah Central!” a newscaster announces from the TV. “The ZPD are announcing a recent death as murder in the dockside neighbourhood of Watering Hole!”

All mammals in the pub turn our gazes up to the TV, where young, handsome Peter Moosebridge sits alone with a stack of papers at his desk. Beside him floats a picture of a young buck with braces, smiling nervously at the camera. 

“Twenty-three year old Scott Grazing was found in his home today. The circumstances of his death remain unexplained by police, but they _are_ treating it was a homicide. This comes not long after the death of dock worker Jeremy Carpincho three weeks ago.”

From the prey side of the pub, I hear a cry of distress and look to see who it’s from.

Looks like it’s from old Joseph, a muscular old buck that bounces for various clubs around Zootopia, as well as other freelance security work on the side. But why’s he—

He’s weeping.

...What was his last name again?

“Alex,” a soft, quietly confident voice calls my name. I look to see Cameron standing in front of the bar. 

Billy’s fur is bristled, and he’s looking at Cameron with cornered eyes. I place a paw on the bar, which gets his attention, and give him a comforting look. He calms down a bit and quickly downs his bourbon before he leaves me and Cameron to—to whatever he came for.

“It’s the same guy. Happened the same way,” Cameron says. He doesn’t say anymore. I almost ask him to, but then I remember that we’re in public.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Forensics found something that suggests that the guy we’ve been looking for is...we’re not looking for the usual suspect.”

I gesture for him to go on. He shakes his head.

“I can’t say what it was. Not here.”

I sigh. “Did they not give you a partner yet?” 

“They did, actually. Wolfston’s on the case with me, but he’s at the docks doing a double check and asking about Scott.”

“Why me?”

“You know the area.”

“You can’t wait for Wolfston?”

“No.”

Jeremy’s killer is on the loose in my neighbourhood, and I’m in a position to help. A glance at the clock sets my decision in stone. There’s nothing else I can do. I look at Cameron, an excited frown on my face. “I’m off in forty-five minutes.”

* * *

“You said you found something that makes you want to go back,” I say to Cameron as I turn to face the window.

The familiarity of his car should give me some sense of comfort, but it doesn’t. I’m simply left to sit in the passenger seat and listen to the six words that have been bouncing around in my mind ever since I left work: I don’t want to be here. 

I’m glad we have something else to discuss that isn’t what happened the last time we were together. I think we both know that there’s nothing to be gained from that. Instead, the car glides at an even pace down the road—into the heart of my neighbourhood and hopefully, towards a murderer that I can help bring to justice.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask,” he says. “Forensics said that it wasn’t teeth that bit into Jeremy’s entrails. It was something similar to teeth, but it wasn’t teeth.”

“That…” I squint. “Alright, so the guy doesn’t actually want to eat his victims.”

“Where did the other half of Jeremy’s kidneys go, then?”

“So he _does_ want to eat his victims, but he doesn’t want to use his teeth?”

“Unless…” he begins.

A moment passes. 

“Unless what?” I ask.

Cameron sighs again. “I don’t think we’re looking for a predator.”

The world feels like it’s stopped around me, and the only confirmation I have that it hasn’t the car is still moving. I feel my stomach churn. “You’re kidding.”

“No.”

_ “Why?" _

“I think that this guy wants to frame a predator.”

“He can do that without _eating_ people!” I shout.

“Calm down. I know.” Cameron pulls into that beautiful, pristine strip of prey apartments and restaurants. “I could guess why he actually eats them, but I don't want to. I want him to tell me himself.”

“...So you’re sure it was a prey?”

“I am,” Cameron says. “My boss thinks otherwise. But he’s stubborn, and that’s not his fault. It’s not like I get along with stags very well in the first place.”

I hold my paw to a window. “I don’t know if you’re gonna find what you’re looking for here.”

Cameron laughs, musical and toneless at the same time. “I do. I know that whoever we’re looking for knew Jeremy’s address, and if it wasn’t his wife or his family or his coworkers, it was someone in those apartments that knew the people who ran that book club.”

“Get into the apartments and we find the killer,” I say.

“Exactly.”

We park in the same spot as we did last time and get out. Almost on queue. Jeff the moose landlord saunters out of his apartment. He doesn’t meet us halfway this time—we walk to him side by side, our intent almost visibly pulsing through our footsteps. 

He gives us an inquiring look as we get into earshot. Cameron speaks before I do.

“Hello, Mr. Graze,” he says. “I trust you’ve heard the recent news?”

“I have. It’s unfortunate that such a young life has been taken from us, but I’m not familiar with that deer in the slightest, so if that’s—"

“Can we come inside?”

Jeff begins to shake his head, but Cameron steps in front of me. I don’t see the look that he gives the moose, but I can see Jeff’s cowed expression and assume that it’s not something that most prey mammals would be comfortable under.

“Of course,” Jeff mutters, and he leads us into the apartments for the first time.

The lobby is glorious. It’s very art deco, with golden geometric lines across the floor and gracing the trim of the furniture, the frames on the elevators. Nostalgia for an age I’ve never known swirls around me like the perfume aisle of a department store. I have to remind myself that whatever sits on the block is less than 3 years old. 

“Welcome to the Golden Palisades,” Jeff announces, a bit of dramatic wonder finding its way into his voice.

We take seats on grand white couches in front of a long rectangular table, gold flowing symmetrically through its legs and edges, and I give the magazines on the table a quick once-over. Zootopian Vogue, Esquirrel and the Cosmarepolitan are all relatively familiar to me, though I’ve never been much of a magazine reader. There are others, though, that I’ve never seen before. All these different issues of magazines about wine and furniture and one that I can’t even pinpoint, or read the language that it’s written in, which is...what the fuck, I can’t even recognize the language it’s written in!

“How many mammals live in this building, Jeff?” asks Cameron.

“Around fifty, give or take,” answers the moose.

“That must be a lot of tenants to keep track of.”

“My daughter helps me with the work when it starts feeling like too much.”

“You know all of them?”

“What do you want, Detective?”

Cameron exhales through his nose softly, and he reaches up to scritch his own ear with a paw before he sets it on his lap again. “Do you know all of the mammals living in your building personally, or do you not?”

“I do,” Jeff says, tersely. “But I’d rather not discuss them while they’re not in the room.”

“Call them all to the lobby, then.”

The room fills with the kind of tension that nearly bristles my fur, but Jeff hangs his head in silent defeat, and Cameron scoots closer to him to continue his questions, so I watch on. 

“A lot of prey in one place,” Cameron says. “You guys tend to have a very _close_ community, isn’t that true? I have a friend that comes by this area a lot and he tells me that you’re very reminiscent of the kinds of mammals that live in suburbs out in the Meadowlands. That means that you talk a lot. Talk about the weather, and you spontaneously visit each other’s homes, and you know everyone’s business and talk when mammals’ backs are turned.”

Jeff raises a brow, a fire behind his dark eyes. “Are you accusing my community of something, detective?”

“Absolutely not.” Cameron leans forward. “I’m going to ask you a question. I want you to think very hard about it, and I want you to remember that I’ve been charged by the ZPD to uphold and enforce the law. I am your friend here. I want to help.”

“Just ask the question.”

Cameron’s voice grows soft and hushed and tender. I have to strain my ears to hear what he says next.

“Is there someone here who recently might have had their world turned upside down?”

Jeff says nothing at first. He only looks away to think, I think. But then I change my mind as I watch him murmur to himself. There’s no memory he needs to remember. He’s deciding something.

“How do you mean?” Jeff asks, after a time.

Cameron responds fast. “Anyone get fired? Anyone have any loved ones pass away? Or maybe someone’s getting married next week, or they’re freshly engaged. On the other side, maybe—”

“Cathy’s husband’s been cheating on her,” Jeff says, and I feel the air grow cold. “She found out about it a month ago.”

“Cathy Fields,” I say. Both Cameron and Jeff look at me strangely.

“You know her?” Jeff asks.

“She’s my manager.” 

Cameron’s guess was right.

“The victims so far have been related to your bar,” Cameron says. He turns to Jeff and jumps back into his questions, his tail waving around like it’s a flag in the wind. “You’re implying that you knew about her husband’s affair before she did. Was this common knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“Why did none of you tell her?”

“She works at that _pub,_” Jeff says with distaste. “No one’s been dying to make friends with her.”

“Is she home? Is her husband home?”

“They’re both at work, I’d expect,” Jeff explains. 

“What was her reaction to the news?” Cameron presses. 

Jeff gives him a glare “Not good. Screaming. Crying. She hasn’t talked to anyone in the building in weeks.”

“Alex,” Cameron says, turning to me. “Is that true? Cathy’s on shift right now?”

But I’ve already stood up, and without saying anything he knows my answer is yes.

* * *

I can’t stop uncurling my claws and curling them again. I drum them on the surface of my thighs nervously, and the tingle from their tips flirting with the skin under my fur makes me shiver constantly. 

“Do you think she did it?” I ask.

The road begins to pass by faster. Cameron grunts noncommitally.

“Cameron, I’m sorry about—"

“Don’t mention it.”

“Or what?”

“You won’t be able to accompany me anymore.”

“Try and stop me,” I growl, picking a paw up and digging my claws into the car seat. 

Cameron looks as if he’s been woken up from a deep sleep. He’s breathing like it, too, with much too heavy exhales and short, snorting inhales. 

“What is it that you want?” he asks. “You’re here for Jeremy, I know. I’m talking about life, now. Do you want a companion? Someone to share your days with?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I guess I want to take my time figuring it out.”

He nods. Lightly at first, but then vigorously. “Okay.”

“Would you like to be friends?” he asks, before I can say anything else.

“Yes,” I tell him.

* * *

The Watering Hole is in full swing when we walk in. It’s so crowded that I can barely tell one half from the next. Pints are being filled, stories are being told and I even hear some shuffling cards in the midst of all the noise. The sunset’s coming through the windows now, tinting the throng of mammals whisky colored. 

At the bar, a pretty cougar waves at me. I wave back and approach her. “Maia, do you know where Cathy is right now?”

Maia points me to the backroom, and I usher Cameron over. 

All the lights are off when we walk in, not that that’s a problem for us.

Cathy’s just sitting on the couch, staring off into the darkness.

“Cathy?” I call towards her as Cameron closes the door behind us, muffling the lively sounds of the pub.

I turn a light on, and Cathy wakes from her trance. She turns towards me, looking surprised. “Alex? Hello. Who’s your friend?”

“Cameron,” he says. “I’m with the ZPD.”

“What can I do for you?” Cathy asks.

The room stinks. Like smoke, but musky.

I pull up a chair and I sit down in front of Cathy. Cameron chooses to lean against the wall, a safe distance away. 

The donkey’s eyes flit back and forth between us. 

“What’s your surname, miss?” Cameron asks.

“Burro.”

“With a W at the end, or an O?”

“O. What is it that you’re here for, officer? Alex, this man might make some of our patrons uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry, Cathy,” I reassure her with a smile. “He just wants to ask some questions.”

“About what, though?” she asks. There’s a small pop in her voice that makes my ears twitch, and she shrinks back in fear upon seeing them do so. “Alex, you know that I don’t like cops here.”

“Where were you three weeks ago, on Friday?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Cathy asks. “I don’t know. I don’t work Fridays, so probably at home.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

“I don’t know,” she says. 

“It’s come to my attention that recently, you may have found out from your fellow tenants at the Golden Palisades that your husband has been cheating on you.”

Cathy tears up immediately, and her expression twists into one of rage. “How _dare_ you? You fucking asshole. You think you can come into my establishment and pry into my personal life without telling me why? Get out.”

“You ate him,” I say.

Cathy’s eyes snap to me, and for a second I see her glare soften. “What?”

“Why would you eat him?” I ask. 

“What are you saying?” 

“Did he taste good? Was it hot for you? Did you slip one of your hooves into your pussy while he bled out on the floor?” I grab the arms of my chair and scoot forward, closer to her. “Tell me, Cathy. I know we’ve never been close, but I’d like to know more. Did it feel good?”

Cathy makes a noise that I can’t place. She stops being indignant.

“Was it easy?” I ask. 

“...No,” she says, after a long time. “But—”

I slap her in the face as hard as I can. She’s thrown off of the couch and slams into the floor. The sound of her snout cracking against the wood is way too loud, but I ignore my discomfort and creep up behind her. Slowly, she places her hooves on the ground, and she grunts as she attempts to lift herself up.

I grab her mane at its base, at the centre of her head, and I yank up. She shrieks, and behind me I hear Cameron start to move towards me, but I thrust my paw backwards and that stops him in his tracks.

“You did it, didn’t you?” I ask loudly.

Cathy yells incoherently. 

“No one outside’s going to hear,” I growl. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

She starts to cry, so I shake her around like a ragdoll. “Tell me _right now_ or I swear to god I’ll tear your fucking legs off.”

“I just wanted to be like you!” Cathy screams. 

Behind us, Cameron lets out a breath that he must have been holding for a long time.

I shove her to the ground. She hits it muzzle first again, grunting. 

“What?” I ask._ ’What?”_

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says, her tone cold. “Eyes on you every day. The herd says to do this. You do it. The herd says you have to look like this. You dress like it. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what kind of _stupid_ expectations are placed on mammals. You give the herd _everything_ and they don’t give you _shit_ because they don’t like the place you work! _Fuck you!_ You don’t know how jealous I am of you. You sit there and you pretend to be a real member of society and you pretend like you don’t have all the power in the world, you think no one else knows that you could just _kill_ us if you wanted? You think that bad things happen to you? Nothing bad happens to you! Who in their right mind would think that they could get away with doing wrong against you?”

Cathy starts to cry, and I spot her knees sliding towards her belly. I raise my foot, about to stomp on her back, but Cameron puts a paw on my shoulder and I step aside.

“Cathy Burro, you’re under arrest under suspicion of murdering Jeremy Carpincho and Scott Grazing,” he announces. The jingle of the handcuffs he pulls out of his pocket sound like music to my ears. “Anything you say can and will be used against you…”

I sit down as he mirandizes her, and I watch them leave through the door.

Eventually it gets leaked that she entered the victims’ homes pretending that they hadn’t paid off their bar tabs. She would cut their throats and bleed them out first, and then she would put on a set of grills that she made herself. It’s a disgusting image that Billy shows me on his phone. A bloody, makeshift set of dentures that have been sharpened into a set of carnivore teeth. 

It haunts my dreams for a week, glinting dangerously in the light as Jeremy’s voice fades in and out of my hearing. I smell blood and smoke, and alcohol, and soon the smell of old benches joins those dreams, because I get classified as a key witness and I have to testify, to talk about the confession.

And I don’t see Cameron for another two weeks unless it’s in my peripherals, or maybe I smell traces of him in court, and it feels like I’ve been abandoned like a kitten at the side of the road, until he shows up again.

He walks in during my shift, and he sits so quietly at the bar that I don’t notice him for five whole minutes.

Cameron looks different in normal clothes. When he’s just in a t-shirt and khakis, and chatting with the others at the bar, I could almost believe that he’s not a narc on the side. But there’s still that stiffness about him. Discipline. 

I give a couple of coyotes their drinks and stride over to him, leaning over. 

“Off work?” I ask.

He gives me a hopeful smile. “I know that we only said ‘friends’, but I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. It's a long decision, but in the end, not a hard one.

“...I’m off in fifteen.”


End file.
